


Not Yours Alone

by Laeviss



Category: World of Warcraft, World of Warcraft - Various Authors
Genre: Angst, Blood, Gen, M/M, Racism, Torture, Violence, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 09:32:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6112354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laeviss/pseuds/Laeviss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Varian has to exact public punishment on an already-battered Garrosh. Somewhat of a companion piece to "Catharsis" wherein the events Garrosh and Varian played out regarding flogging and torture actually happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Yours Alone

The agreement had been simple: each city would have one day to punish Garrosh Hellscream as they saw fit before relocating him to the next area. They had all consented, and Stormwind, the last stop on his “tour,” had agreed on a sentence of thirty lashes.

Unfortunately for Varian, not every faction had been quite so even-handed.

When Garrosh arrived, he could barely walk. The first thing Varian noticed was the open wounds slashing every inch of bare skin, splattered with rotten fruit and other substances Varian didn’t try to interrogate. They had been left untreated, possibly for the duration of the orc’s journey. The king felt his heart clench in his chest.

The walk from the Deeprun Tram to the stocks took more than an hour. Taking up post behind him, Varian was forced to stare as black blood ran down Garrosh’s legs and his feet buckled at every step. Someone had used electric shocks on his flesh; when the cloud of smoke blanketing the sky over the Dwarven District parted, the sunlight caught blisters and char marks cutting across his side. Struggling to keep a neutral expression– after all, his people were watching, lining the streets on both sides of the procession to clap and shout and jeer– Varian bit his lip and forced his stance to straighten.

Years of training with poise and diplomacy were all he had left to fall back on. Too bad he’d always been miserable with control where Garrosh was concerned.

When they reached the canals, a crowd on the other bank started cheering, almost in unison, at Garrosh’s pain. _This is for Theramore!_ They cupped their hands around their mouths to make sure the former Warchief heard, but, with his head drooping as it was, Varian couldn’t be sure. The proud orc he once knew felt lost within a slumping frame, and he guessed the flame that used to dance and flare beneath his eyes had already died. He wondered for a moment who had stamped it out. Despite his best effort to resist, bile rose in the back of his throat.

Someone had killed Garrosh Hellscream. The figure that shook and stumbled before him was little more than a ghost.

But if that were true, why did it hurt so much? Varian forced the thought from his mind, not wanting to pursue it to its logical conclusion. Those feelings had faded long ago, after Theramore, after the Divine Bell, after watching the Warchief give himself over to Y’shaarj with hopes of seeing Stormwind crushed beneath his heel. He had nothing left for Garrosh but disgust, and justice. And it was justice his people deserved to see.

A cloud passed over the sun, and the cathedral cast its shadow across the road to the stocks. It seemed for a moment that Garrosh wouldn’t make it any further– stopping, knee starting to fold as one of his guards yanked at the top of his arm– and at that, laughter rippled through the crowd. Although Varian couldn’t see his face, murmurs of ‘he’s crying, he’s crying’ rolled like a wave through the sea of onlookers, stoking the dread that burgeoned in the pit of his stomach.

So this was it, then? The proud Garrosh reduced to tears on the footstep of his enemy’s stronghold, crumbling in front of them like a broken, bloodied doll? When the shadow passed, Varian caught sight of a rib, shattered, jutting out through a gash in his skin, and remembered the thirty lashes he was supposed to administer.

He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

And yet, his people demanded punishment.

Looking down at his feet, Varian stepped to the side to avoid the black blood that trickled through cracks in the cobblestone. He remembered the last time these streets had ran with blood, and he reminded himself, forcefully, that it had been the orcs, Garrosh’s own father, who drove it to those ends. The Hellscreams had brought his people nothing but suffering, and it was their lack of humanity that spurred on their violence. It had to be. They were beasts. They were monsters. They were–

When they stepped on to the bridge, Varian heard a choked sob escape Garrosh’s lips: low, suppressed, full of shame and desperation and terror, and all together too human for Varian’s liking. He recalled the old adage “an orc cannot cry,” and, stomach plummeting, wished beyond hope that it were true.

But that kind of thinking had brought them here in the first place, he knew: belief in each other’s monstrosity. Garrosh was just like him– harboring the same fears, the same anxieties, the same desires– but he had denied it, ignored it.

He had chosen to claim they couldn’t see eye-to-eye, and in that, he drove them apart.

Rounding the stronghold that would eventually become Garrosh’s prison, Varian cast one last look over the crowd: their sneering faces, their shouts, the joy with which they met Garrosh’s suffering. A few grimaced or looked away, but for every person who empathized there was ten laughing to eclipse them. It hardly mattered now who had tortured him to the point of destruction. He saw on his own people’s faces the very same cruelty and loathing that had pushed Garrosh to his breaking point. Good and evil blurred, and all Varian could see was the glare of the sun against Garrosh’s wounds.

The had made it to the stockades. The wooden steps leading up to the whipping block creaked as Garrosh struggled to ascend, and beyond, Varian caught sight of his son, watching, lips parted in horror and a wordless scream filling his eyes. Anduin had hated this idea from start to finish, and he had been right. He was always right. Wishing he could go back to that council and demand a new punishment, Varian found Anduin’s stare, and frowned, hoping his son understood how terrible and conflicted he felt. The prince’s hand shook as he leaned on his cane, and his gaze dropped to the floor.

But Varian knew there was no going back. If he were to stop now, there would be a riot: his people demanded to see this, no matter how wrong it seemed, no matter how hard it became to keep his eyes on Garrosh’s back.

No matter how he felt about the former Warchief, his duty had to come first.

At the top of the stairs, Garrosh slumped over, heaving and vomiting, though it seemed he hadn’t eaten for days. Varian stepped over the puddle on his way to the back of the platform, forcing his lips to steady, forcing his eyes to train on the street beyond. The orc was all but dragged over to the whipping block, and Varian could feel him looking up as he passed, feel his teeth clench together and his eyes stare in horror at the man who would exact this final humiliation.

The man he had fought, and sneered at, and hated, and wanted, and loved. And Varian couldn’t bring himself to face him.

Extending a shuddering hand, he kept his eyes on the crowd, and accepted the hilt of the whip.


End file.
